haroldnmod

Most say…

it’s about balance, that life should be driven by a course evenly charted. But this path is taken with a conglomerate of quid-pro-quos. It’s merely chance credited by choice and while I feel in certain company with control there is so much working against the calm of balance. Which is to say, balance isn’t calm at all. Balance is chaos… a cyclone where my only hope is of reaching the center.

It’s much like that game, labyrinth: the one with the wooden maze on a drilled platform, where the goal is to conduct a steel ball from start to finish amidst dangerous pitfalls with wavering hands on ill-customed knobs. The funny thing about that game is it’s not about outright balance at all. In fact if balance were maintained then the ball would stagnate.

It seems to me that the course of life is to maintain just the right amount of unbalance in order to produce the sufficient amount of propulsion for plotting a successful journey. Here’s the kicker though: the very thing you use to get the ball rolling is the thing that is betting against you.

In this case, gravity is willing my future to end abruptly, calling out for my decent. Allure as it were. At times I will agree. And for some of us, the suggestion will encourage an outright outcome with no rebuttal. Death as it were.

And that’s when each of us will realize “I never thought death was easy, until I saw life from death’s perspective.”

When it comes to full life and absolute death they’re in approximately the same position, only death turns out to be about two inches lower than “finish” and instead of a simple dead end it comes with a platform.

Life doesn’t come with this foresight of course and if we were to be seeing our path not aerially but in motion, as balls on this adventure, we’d never see the holes in our path. They’d simply appear as if from oblivion. And that’s the battle isn’t it? Finding the perfect moment to switch, with nothing but orientation and a quick flinch telling us which way to turn. And the real fear for me comes from not knowing if that flinch will ever surface.

7 ♥

Today, three men died…

one by chance, one by coercion and one by choice. Who am I?

Before you decide, I guess you should know that two years before my sister died, I told her that cancer was a trick played by God, to teach the world how to feel. When they were extracting her tumor, God told me that feelings were worthless to a soul without faith. I guess he was right, because after she died we never met again.

Three days after the funeral I called my uncle up and asked him what emptiness was. He told me it was two turtles making love. When I asked him what that meant, he said, someday you’ll understand.

Yesterday, I was scraping the contours of a rock and I thought of the way Maria and I have sex. He was right.

We’re taking our son to Six Flags next month, though he doesn’t know it yet. He’ll be 8 so I figure he can finally go on all the good rides. Personally, I’ve never been a fan of rides. Probably because when I was his age, Father never took us anywhere.

When we first had Max, I made a promise to myself and to him, never to be like my father.

“Fuck! I hate him. I hate him so much. Why did he hit me?”

“Why did I hit Max?”

I said I’d never do it. It took eight years, eight years and a fucking amusement park for me to raise my hand. To raise it and come down with all the weight that comes with eight years of retention. And for what? To teach him respecting others outweighs excitement?

He grabbed my hand this morning when getting into the car and I shuddered. Today was the day I lost my son.

I went to Mother’s house for the first time in fifteen years. She died shortly after my sister. I thought just maybe, there’d be some answers in the yellow paint. When I got there I only found red siding.

Come to think of it, it was the same red as the stripes on my father’s beer bottles. He always said, “When all else fails, son: trust in beer. It’s bread, it’s water and the ecstasy of a good loose woman.” I have no doubt he meant those words, nor the hope that he would forget them. Had it not been for Mother, it would have been the epitaph bevelled in his grave stone.

I often come down to the river these days and walk barefoot amongst the pebbles. I take care in setting my shoes together and hanging my socks on the branches above them. This has always been my ritual, a result of sweaty feet I guess. I think it’s why I never stray too far from the water; I’m a wet-footed man.

When I’m curling my toes around the little rocks, digging them into the soupy mud, I remember the first time my world was tactile. I was in my first bedroom, combing the carpet with my fingers, considering the effect of the fibers as they caught on my fingernails. With each pass they would shred, frayed fibers and splintered hangnails as if both were trying to say “in order to feel each other, we must equally tear the other apart.”

It’s the last way I felt Cora’s back. I knew I should have stopped, and she didn’t like it too much. But who was she? Not Maria. Fuck! What was she? Better yet… what am I?

This is the last letter I will write. Not because I couldn’t change anything, but because I didn’t want to. Who would want to upset life? To change it? We entered this world head towards the ground. Who gave us the rite to invert ourselves?

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remember when I wrote things…

me neither… it’s been a while… but I do… and right now I’m remembering things… maybe it’s because I was told in writing class to write about my memories, or maybe cause I’m by default very nostalgic… even when something seems nostalgic contrary to my experience… do you remember that mash-up between Lykke Li and Kings of Leon? Knocked Up I think it was… yeah, that jam was the shit. I miss them… a lot. And I know they’ve both come out with material since… but damn it’s not the same. Little Bit shit in my mouth bloody glass and I liked it. And don’t get me started with Closer… I feel like all the music I listen to now is pussy shit… which if that were literal it sounds offensive… or… I guess it’s loosely translated to piss… which is pretty accurate seeing as a loose puss has a lot to do with weak muscles… ipso facto bladder control issues. Oh and speaking of loose lips… CAN WE ALL TAKE A MOMENT TO COMMEMORATE THAT GOLDEN TRACK: Lindsay Lohan’s Revenge? SpankRock… uh ma gah. Guys… I’m drinking… so now’s your time to take advantage. That’s all?

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Dear Tumblrverse.

I apologize for falling off the face of the earth this past week… Work was a whirlwind… and then Christmas happened… and I felt like being not here but out there… in the world. And now I’m going to disappear further for a few weeks on a trip to Buenos Aires. I love you all… in a way one loves people they have never met. Besos.

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Politics…

in a time and a place (as in my entire past) were something I never really talked about. In fact more often than not they were something for which I got very frustrated. I accepted the idea that politics for me were irrelevant as I preferred a life that involved the balance of neutrality. As I get older, I find my heart and mind at a conflict, not with each other, but with this notion. You see, who am I without my own voice, my own thoughts and my ability to express these. They are the fundaments upon which I direct my creative visions…so why is it that I find it necessary to exclude them as tenements of my idealistic beliefs? I can directly state that this ideology is fucking stupid.

So why do I bring this up? Why have I taken a personal interest in political issues? Perhaps in part it has to do with the fact that I downloaded the New York Times ap on my phone or that I have dismantled my previous fortitudes which established art could be created as universally relevant through the dissolution from current events: the idea of art for art’s sake. But art is never purely motivated. And if it is, there is always a need to categorize or title or attribute it so that it becomes pertinent or relative to a public.

It is in my experience that the works of art which address a public initiative from the onset are most successful in execution and delivery. In my personal work, I approach visions as an exploration of sexual identity, defining my own portrayals of feminine and masculine. As cliche as the terms may be, the meaning I derive does not stem from the cliche. Obviously the ideology that predicates them is deeply rooted (it is equivocal to the pretense of “Origin”) but this is just the groundwork. The acceptance of tradition is tantamount to ability to distinguish progressive change. To say otherwise is to be blind.

And I have been blind for a very long time. There are so many issues which I wish to address, and time permitting I’ll attempt to tackle a few as concisely as possible. Each of the following issues could indeed be an expansive essay, so if my arguments come across undeveloped it is not because they have not been though on, but do not have enough space to be fully flushed out.

Perhaps one of the issues I’ve had most challenge with over this past year is the brazen endorsement of Mitt Romney by Nikki Minaj. Granted the point is moot at this point since the election has passed with a victory going to Barak Obama (thank god)… but I think what I am about to say still holds merit.

As horrible as this sounds, cap C, “Celebrity” has for America turned into a sort of ambassadorship. They are the public image for not just citizens of our country but the world.Self branding as a direct result of marketing, media and the ravenous public eye has made the development of characters and persona necessary for establishing and distinguishing oneself from what would be a mass of nostalgic fluff.

There was this great article I read earlier this year where it spoke to the celebrity dilemma. Where now it is relevant that your personal life reflect an aspect of the roles you play. Examples being drawn for certain actors successes and failures in roles based on what they do outside of film. For instance, Angelina Jolie works as a gun slinging badass world avenger because of her dark side interlude with Billy Bob and current position as a US Ambassador for the UN. Subsequently she failed in her portrayal of a weak defenseless mother in Changeling because the world could not accept her as being meek. No matter her acting prowess there is a disbelief in the character on a bias generated from the life which she leads outside.

Nikki Minaj perhaps more than any other public figure has taken full advantage of this character development with her split personalities and dual characters popping up in her music and public life. There is no doubt in my mind she (or the managers behind her success) know what they are doing. So why is it then, that she decided to endorse a candidate that alienates her fan base (which other than teenagers is predominantly composed of fanny popping gays and African Americans)?

Had Mitt Romney been elected into office, the massive advances towards marriage equality throughout the United States on account of Obama’s pro civil rights policymaking would have come to a screeching halt if not even sent into retrograde. And what of the Health Care initiatives that have brought relief to the most directly affected demographic of impoverished African Americans?

Nikki Minaj is not the only perpetrator here. You have Paris Hilton’s inflammatory anti-gay comments seemingly coming from a woman blissfully unaware that her entire “celebrity” is fueled by that very glittery gaydom. Even Rihanna’s return to the beating hand of Chris Brown can be seen as a socially incomprehensible move for a woman who has built a career on celebrating the strength and beauty of women.

On the flip-side you have those characters who are advocates for the fans who support them. Lady Gaga for instance being an active member of the LGBT community acknowledges not only the cause in her music, but in her public life as well.

The simplest answer and perhaps the greatest cop-out any celebrity with a liberal fan base can take is, “I’m conservative with money”. And this is where I take offense. Money cannot be the only factor for which to vote or endorse a single candidate. And yet, I am conflicted, because I also strongly believe that everyone has their right of choice. The Vote is the equalizer that levels the playing field of this nation: that makes the wealthiest and the poorest a tally of one.

Is it then that a celebrity has a higher code of conduct or responsibility when it comes to social consciousness, as say a priest leading his/her parishioners down a path of spirituality has in the matters of morality? Is it so unjust to suggest that these Characters be them fiction or fully adopted as reality must be aware of the impact they impart in the decisions they make?

Up next: Texas’ bid for secession? Are you fucking kidding me?

0 ♥

Got a pocket full of change…

which is why the continents are shifting. That’s right… everytime my pocket bajangles… it means I’ve conducted the movement of the world. Just take it as translative theology regarding bell tinkles and angelic wing growth. If you haven’t a clue what I’m spitting, check out that Sci-Fi classic turned holiday fluff, “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Nostalgia, mothafuckas! Which is further correlative to the fact that I’m in this state of remembrance. You see, a lot of things have me reflective, like my grandfather dying, the strongest connection I’ve had with a human being cut short by life and circumstance, Netflix and it’s endless store of childhood nightmares that have turned into adulthood fascinations (vis-a-vis the X-Files), those things called mirrors, professional discontent sparring with professional growth, and cover songs of my favorite high school classics. Do you remember City High? Well, they hit it hard with that jam “What Would You Do?”… and my friend done made a new ass cover of it… and I’mma share it… but before all of that, remember when I used to post music. I forgot and my blog forgot and well, I want to remember it all again. Like swiss cheese hoagies and butternut fries (these aren’t really memories, but they sound good) just like the tracks coming your way are going to sound good. So if you know me as a fartistic or fashistic blogger don’t be offended by this change in content. It’s fully approrpriate… I SWEAR… and so is the rest of the change coming to you… (more on that later) SUSPENSEFUL PAUSE OF SOAP-OPERATIC DRAMATICS… (colorfully misconstrued as the xylophonic musings of the NBC peacock)… dun dun dun.

1 ♥

I need a B-A-R-N… BARN!

Hi people of the tumblrsphereniversico! I am in need of some rural land in the greater NYC area (we’re talking Upstate/Connecticutt/Pennsylvania/Jersey). Maybe some horses, definitely some wheat and some grey barnage… you know Wyethlike.

I’ve got an editorial that needs a banging backdrop. Let me know if you know of anything or if you are the proud owner of said barnage…

or send this to all of your NY area followers.

Cheers and love,

Joel

0 ♥

I found the knife in the garden.

It was from back when we used to throw it at the ground; to see who could stick it best in the dirt we wet by pissing on the tree. You always took the longest pisses, but I don’t remember you ever drinking anything. Except for that time we took beers down to the salmon locks. You tied the pack to your shoelace and put your whole damn foot in the water. Shoes, socks, everything. You looked so silly sitting there, in your whitey-tighties and chucks. Your slightly concave chest pulled in by your overdeveloped diaphragm, and unformed pecs. You were stupid passing for goofy. Oh, but we were both stupid at fifteen. Complete dumbfucks, lolling out summers in freckled skin and slouching bodies. God! That first swig! Do you remember? I spit it all over your face and you just flew backwards into the pool with all the fish. Of course it didn’t matter any. You were just as much a fish as any other finned thing. Even your skin was scaly, and the way your flop of hair always slicked itself, leaching grease from your oily scalp. I loved watching you swim. It was another art form, the way your body followed your head, helmeted by that greasy hair. The point of which grew from a simple line that seemed to make up your whole body. A single line, mocked only by that damn beer pack trudging then knocking your ankles red. It was lucky for me that you swam so well, that you could stay under for so long. It was the only time I could really stare at you. Boldy, unabashedly examine you, look through you as if you were more like water than the fish. Sometimes, I wondered what you saw down there, blinking through the dazzling particles of floating algae and fish shit, to see my obscurity through the ripples at the surface. You always came up blue faced and goosebumped. How is it that you could just sit there and shiver? More like pulsate to the knock of your knees and chatter of your teeth, like the sound from the shaman’s amulet up on the reservation. I always heard there were stories in bones. For all we knew, that was the truth. Did it matter if it wasn’t? Couldn’t put much weight on the truth anyway. Always ended up breaking. Not you though. You were strong for all your insipid growth. Really strong. The way a stalk gets strong from resisting currents in the same direction. It’s like your whole life you were the sockeye, strengthened by the swim upstream. But for some reason your muscles never grew, rather their fibers were drawn more resolute. I think the reason you loved the water so much or maybe it was that I loved you in the water so much, is I always heard music when you were down there; when the river bowed its way over your sinews. Why didn’t I plunge after you to hear it more clearly? Tell me siren! I must have gone deaf from my brain’s pleading. It was of the stuff madmen are made. In that last summer together, I remember this knife and the tree and climbing to the second limb. Is it still there? The tree is much taller now, and while I am too, I feel the strain of a solid jump to grasp the first branch. Swinging as I did twenty years ago, shirtsleeves knocking my face from my inversion, my thighs reacquaint themselves to the coarseness of the bark, and the dark spots it leaves when its crumbles imbue with the scratches and throbbing bumps of raspberry chaffing. The smell of your hair came from this sycamore grit, where on the second branch we would throw its spiny testicles at your little sister, doing our best to just miss or just hit her. We didn’t hate her or anything and it’s not that she was particularly annoying. It’s just that this place was ours. And here I sit on the second branch, rubbing my fingers over the crevice that transforms trunk to limb, rumpled like the foliate pubis of maturity. And it is there, under my finger, the intaglio of our friendship: J + J.

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NY Stylists.

Hello all. I’m sure that you are all having a splendid and eventful weekend here in NY. I’m checking in to see if any of my followers are stylists. I’m setting up shoots for the next three months for runs in magazines and need to be sure I’m getting diverse and inspiring looks for both studio and location shoots. I’m working with both male and female talent from Major Models. If you want, you can check out my work here: JOEL SLOCUM Photographer. Shoot me a message on here or direct to my e-mail, with links to your work and we’ll take it from there! Cheers, Joel.

4 ♥

Expel.

It’s a lot like a spreadsheet… what with words and all… it’s just missing the whole table thing. So I guess really, it’s nothing like an excel document. But let’s just say that this has been one shadoozie of a week. Amazing news professionally. I have a story coming out soon that’s going to be in Schon! that awesome German fashion mag. And today I set up 3 more shoots coming out between winter and spring. And the better news, is that I had my first date in a month yesterday. But you know a date is a date. Who’s to say what comes of it. If I had my way, I would… but I don’t because there’s this shit thing about how two people have to be involved in making a mutual decision. I mean, I like the whole romantic notion of union… but I hate not being in control. Somedays, it would just be easier to be Jesus. Maybe I’m turning into him? I haven’t eaten in two days… perhaps a sign that I’m out of whack with the world. The world told me a secret in my delusion last night. If I could remember it, I might have shared it with you. Goodbye everyone, I’m off to the beach… at 4pm on a Thursday. Why? Because I’m chasing the sun. It’s leaving us really fast this year. Greetings to September.

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Orange juice…

is like velvet. I never buy it, but it feels so good!

3 ♥

When Amy Winehouse sings about her cherry…

I want to eat pie. Can’t help it. Luckily I have these scrumptious, substitutional choco-covered pretzels to satisfy my sweet tooth. God it’s been so long since I let my uninhibited freeword skrilla talk go. Well, Who’s to stop me. Certainly not this vino. Back on the winery (that’s like the farm with grapes) we used to call the boozehounds that came into the shop Whinos… which I didn’t quite get… the whole vino to wine to whine to rhino association… I was just like what’s the big deal? Rhinos aren’t people too. And then the reality strikes. People after two bottles of wine (which is conservative at these sort of events) are fucking rhitarded. And so here I sit. Rhinehousing myself whilest attempting to edit this bitching ass photo (which you’ll see in like 3 months once it’s published) and it’s just like chalk is scratching along the skull space between my cranium and temporal lobe. And I want to be chilling on the vertigo ride of a hand making these wicked gestural movements, but I’m restricted to the tingles pulsating through my body. Go. Me. And anyway, I think it’s safe to say that the post I made on Sunday was a mistake… only in the sense that I didn’t really gage the audience age… ip so facto perpetrating me as a Pedophiliac disease. The reality is… I’m 26. And while I’m ready for love (don’t punch me India.Aire) I’m not really going to find it through the stratosphere of webtabularism. At least not the groovy kind. Well, I’ve found that through Amy… she gets me wet and shit. But wet like from creaming not sweat… in case you were wondering. What? Chefs do that (name that movie)… No. But really. They make really good food with cream involved. Hailo, mac-in-chaise. I should be in the kitchen… which is what I did at the winery… I cooked. I was a Preparatory Chef. That’s not the same as Sous Chef… that’s like major. I was a minor leaguer… beatin’ some minor balls. Though baseball was not my forte… on the Sandlot was my sporte. To this day I can claim, “I’m bakin’ like a toasted cheeser.” On all accounts. Well, I’m going to depart from this and hope you all enjoyed a special Viogner induced vomit de vocabulary. Much love and chicken juice. Joel.

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Dear Tumblrites…

Tomorrow I depart for New Zealand! Which means, this is my last post for two weeks. I will miss being flooded with inspiration and speaking with all my penpals. If I haven’t gotten back to you yet, I will try to before I go… otherwise, I’ll return in two weeks with hopefully some stories and new experiences… and photos to share with you all. All the best, I’ll be back soon enough. Cheers and love - Joel.

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First playlist post in a year…

and it’s pretty badass… GET EXCITED.

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